


Building... Building...

by yikesola



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2019, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesola/pseuds/yikesola
Summary: Phil’s usually far too anxious to mess around with sex on a bad day. He knows; they’ve tried. But Phil thinks, while standing in the kitchen and still feeling the sparks on his skin where Dan had just been so tender and so doting, maybe it’s actually what he needs today.A fic about anxious days and attention.





	Building... Building...

Phil is in denial for the first half of this bad day that it even _is_ a bad day. He’s in denial that the hangover from yesterday’s headache is still lingering behind his eyes, leaving him sluggish and possibly tired if it weren’t for the anxiety that he’s also in denial about. The waves of anxiety that keep rolling over his shoulders, down his spine, pooling in the palms of his hands.

It’s just a constant simmer of anxiety; it’s refusing to boil over.

That’s almost worse, he thinks. At least panic attacks end. This continuous wave of _something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong_ is wearing him down, fraying his nerves, leaving him wired.

But he’s in denial because he doesn’t _want_ it to be a bad day. And surely what he _wants_ has to be taken into consideration by the universe, right? Surely that’s part of the bargain he made by remaining alive these 32 years…?

Yesterday with his headache was bad enough. It feels a little like today was doomed from the start. He wishes he didn’t feel things so viscerally— a headache that knocks his productivity to zero, anxiety that doesn’t sit contained in his brain but instead flows out to his limbs and makes itself known. It’s not just the loops of worry in his head that he deals with on a normal day. No, it’s more than that. It’s a bad day, and he’s irritable and he’s already exhausted though his body is too wired right now to allow for something so necessary as rest.

There’s no reason for it. Nothing’s happened. That’s the most frustrating bit; people feel nervous, bodies feel anxious, there’s just… there’s supposed to be a freaking reason. But everything’s fine, and Phil’s brain is convincing his body that it isn’t.

He stays in denial by forcing productivity: he answers half a dozen lengthy and convoluted emails about the spring merch launch, he barrels through the edit of a video and hates it, he deletes that edited version and edits it again from the top. He even goes for a run. Him— Philip Michael Lester! Sure, it’s not as unheard of as it was a few years ago. But still... he’s going for a run, and not with Dan and not because a trainer told him to, but because his body refuses to let him sit still.

It doesn’t work, none of it works.

In fact, a few of the things he does to remain in denial probably makes the bad day worse.

No _probably_ about it. Definitely. He’s definitely made a bad day worse by drinking two coffees for the caffeine despite the nervous heart palpitations he’s now got, and he definitely made a bad day worse by snapping at Dan three for four times. Enough times that Dan recognised the bad day before Phil was done being in denial about it, and now he’s currently giving Phil space by sitting out on the balcony with a book his mum had talked about the last time they all saw her for lunch.

Phil knows he’s supposed to be thankful for the space because he doesn’t want to snap at Dan; he never wants to be irritable and cross on days like this. He feels bad that anxious days make him so petulant.

But he also hates the space because a self-pitying section of his brain, currently being egged on by the unasked-for adrenaline he’s soaking in, wants Dan to dote on him. To be as accommodating about Phil’s bad days as Phil is about Dan’s.

That’s not a fair thought, he realises as soon as he has it.

Because Dan _is_ that accommodating about Phil’s bad days. Always has been. That’s why he’s giving him space right now after all, because usually that’s what Phil wants. Dan’s not trying to slip out of being a helpful, caring partner. He’s out on the balcony because he fucking cares.

The duality of Phil on a bad day is that he gets to be perfectly aware about this, and still sulk that Dan isn’t currently doting on him anyways.

And eventually there’s no denying that spending seven or so hours feeling as though he’s continually on the verge of a panic attack— no matter how many breathing techniques or positive affirmations he’s picked up over the years— means that it’s a bad day.

“Dan,” he says from the sofa, though the sliding door to the balcony is closed. “Daaaaaan!” he tries again, louder.

Still no answer.

He sulks once more, sinking into the cushions, feeling a little wounded for being so abandoned and a little satisfied about feeling wounded at all. This fits the narrative the loops have been whispering to him for ages— of course Dan can’t be bothered about him. Of course all he does is stress Dan out. Of course Dan deserves some time in the spring sunshine, not to answer every time Phil screams for him. Dan would leave him here to combust, his cells so live they’re radiating heat. And it’d serve Phil right…

He stands. He can’t bear to be lying on the sofa anymore.

Maybe a shower. He never took one when he was done with his run, after all.

He stands under the falling water and thinks about how many times his brain supplied the words _bad day_ in the last few hours. Far too many, surely. He’s annoyed by his own irritabilities. He’s exhausted, sick of his prickliness and his cantankerousness and goddammit… he just wants to be in a good mood. He wants to laugh. He wants to feel like himself. He wants to take a break from this feeling that’s taken over. He knows he can’t banish it completely but, shit— can’t he just press pause or something, please? Just long enough to catch his breath?

His stomach growls and he notices the water has gone cold. He steps out of the shower and dresses without doing anything more for his hair than a quick shakedown with a towel. He may have an excess of energy, but he’s not going to siphon any of it into sea salt spraying his quiff today.

He’s hungry, but also pretty sure that anything he tried to cook would catch on fire. And he’s worried that Dan will think he’s lazy if he just orders takeout again for a second time this week.

They’re going to Brighton in a few days. He needs to do laundry. That’s what he focuses on instead of the wanted meal that would be a late lunch or an early dinner, though he does worry about how much laundry detergent he’s tossing in the washer as though it’s not something he’s done on muscle memory for decades.

It’s just something to worry about. And he’s reached that plateau where he’ll worry about any fucking thing he can.

He steps into the kitchen to see Dan with the kettle in his hand. He’s stirring grounds of instant coffee into Phil’s NASA mug— which was actually _Dan’s_ NASA mug because his own didn’t survive the plane journey from America years ago and Dan just pretended not to notice or mind when Phil commandeered it for his own use— and just as Phil’s about to complain that his heart’s too jittery right now for a coffee even though it is about time for his afternoon fix, he sees the tin of grounds Dan had been scooping from and the scrawl of _decaf_ written under the logo.

He thinks he might cry.

He’s still a little uncomfortable with how common that is for him these days. Or just, more common than it used to be in days gone by. Still, just as the anxiety has been simmering all day, so too has the urge to cry been sitting in the corners of his peripheral vision since he first woke up. 

“Thank you,” he says with a pout when Dan hands him the mug. Here Dan is, doting on him just the way he’d been whining for about an hour or so ago. His anxiety goes from red to white as he thinks about the many, many ways he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve Dan. Doesn’t deserve this bizarre life they’ve built. How could he possibly? When he can’t do a normal fucking thing like function on a normal at-home day… he can’t even commit to a meltdown to start fresh, he’s just… messy, and bad, and draining.

And despite all of this being incontrovertible fact, according to the snippy voice in his head churning the anxiety crank, Dan smiles at his thanks. Dan says, “No problem.” Dan tilts over and kisses his shoulder. Despite everything— Dan… Dan’s here and his and happy.

He takes a sip of the coffee. It’s still steaming from the kettle; he can practically hear Dan teasing him for drinking lava, though he doesn’t actually. He’s just watching Phil take his sip, a smile so light on his face that his dimples are barely showing up to say hello. They’re just nodding in acknowledgement, if anything.

“How you feeling?” Dan asks.

Phil shrugs. That’s not just a gesture exactly, he feels like one big shrug right now.

He’s feeling everything, all at once. Which means they’re mixing together like paint until it’s all just brown. A saturated brown, sure, but everything is uncomfortably saturated. He’s begging for a little dilution.

“Well, _what_ are you feeling then?” Dan asks with a patient grin.

“Just like… building?” Phil says. He shrugs again. “Just all day long, been building up. And I feel like I’m gonna snap. Like I’ll have a panic attack or have all my bones break or I’ll turn into dust, and then…” he laughs, a laugh much bitterer than the too-sweet coffee he takes another sip of, “I don’t. I just keep building more.”

“Poetic,” Dan teases, his grin having shifted into an understanding smile. He bends to kiss Phil’s shoulder again, then turns his head to where the hem of Phil’s shirt meets his neck and plants his lips there as well. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“Mmm,” he says, uncommitted.

Dan’s lips on his neck feel nice. He never minded when they were chapped, but they aren’t right now; they’re hydrated and soft and moving against his skin in a way that for the first freaking time since he woke up makes Phil think he might actually be able to be distracted from the anxiety banging pots and pans together in the caverns of his brain.

Except Dan doesn’t seem to get that hint, much as Phil sometimes feels Dan can read his mind.

Dan stops after a few lazy kisses planted on Phil’s neck, so sweetly and _God_ does Phil love sweet things. He stands and stretches and grabs his own mug from the counter and walks towards the lounge. Phil can hear him turn the television on.

Phil’s usually far too anxious to mess around with sex on a bad day. He knows; they’ve tried. It just makes everything feel a little too messy and bad. Makes him feel a little too jittery. An orgasm on a bad day usually makes him feel too out of control of his own body; not at all in the good way that a normal orgasm on a normal day provides, but in a horrible chaotic way that lingers around him and looks too much like shame and like guilt for things he has no reason to feel shameful or guilty about.

But Phil thinks, while standing in the kitchen and still feeling the sparks on his skin where Dan had just been so tender and so doting, maybe it’s actually what he needs today.

He couldn’t get a release from work, or from running— and his anxiety doesn’t seem to be gunning for a release in the form of a meltdown or panic attack. He might as well get the release of an orgasm. Stop the building. Even if it means he’s just gonna start over from the foundations again; he’d rather that than the skyscraper he’s currently working with. 

The coffee is much cooler by this time as he takes another sip. Still not cool enough for the standard mouth to bear, but cooler than when he had sipped it a moment ago.

He knows he’s being… needy, annoying and needy, and that Dan probably has better things to do. He also knows that’s just his brain saying shit and that Dan’s literally sat on the sofa with the television on so he’s probably not working on anything too pressing, and also Dan likes sex just as much as Phil thank you very much so he wouldn’t exactly be asking for a big favour and— he sets down the mug before he can contribute to the loops any further.

“Dan, you busy?” asks as he walks towards the lounge, his voice loud enough that he knows it’ll carry.

“Hmm?” Dan says, “No.”

Phil is at the arm of the sofa now, standing over him. “Good,” he says, bending down, grabbing at Dan’s shoulders and pulling him into a kiss.

Dan lets out a quick gasp that almost sounds surprised. Then eagerness takes over and he’s kissing him back with just as much intent. Phil bites at his lip and tugs at the curls he’s threaded his fingers through, and he lets the anxiety have an outlet, have somewhere to go for once.

“Phil,” Dan says, pulling away for a moment, the breath kissed out of him already, “Phil, what do you want? Are you okay for this right now?”

“Yes,” he assures him. He looks him in the eye so Dan knows he means it though the thrumming currently happening to each of his cells is making the focus difficult. He manages anyways; he needs Dan to know this is okay. More than okay. He needs Dan to know how badly he wants this. “I want to fuck you,” he says, realising what he wants as he says it, “I want to fuck you here on the sofa and first I want to work out my energy on you, and then I want you to be so goddamn sweet for me, Dan.”

There’s a delicious whimper that escapes Dan as Phil says this. Then he tries to smirk though his glazed eyes spoil the effect, “Aren’t I always sweet for you, Philly?” He even bats his eyelashes for good measure, because when does Dan not take an extra moment to be a little dramatic?

Phil laughs and kisses him again. “Not always,” he says, “sometimes you’re a little shit.” Dan laughs as well.

“Not today though, don’t worry,” Dan stands. “I can make my mind up to be sweet.”

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he says, realising he hadn’t said it at the time.

“Shut up, bad days suck. I’m gonna start being sweet by grabbing the lube while you get comfortable.” He waggles his eyebrows on the last word and Phil laughs because Dan can almost always make him laugh, then he turns the television off and lays down on the sofa waiting for Dan to get back.

He counts his breaths in his quick moments alone; he tries to focus on where it is he’s feeling anxious— the arches of his feet clad in odd socks, the palms of his hands which are eager to feel Dan’s soft skin again, his lungs, or really where he imagines his lungs to be. He has a general idea, but it’s just an educated guess.

Dan comes back and sets the bottle of lube on the coffee table. He’s taken his sweats off and is wearing only his stripped jumper and a tight pair of black pants.

He leans and places a knee between Phil’s hip and the back of the sofa, then climbs on top of Phil and yes, the feeling of Dan’s body weight on Phil’s seems to finally still the running current of his anxiety; it’s pressed down, slowed, unable to move so freely through his veins. He moves his hands to the familiar hold of Dan’s hips.

“Still good?” Dan asks, kissing along Phil’s jaw.

Phil nods.

“You’ll tell me if that changes?” Dan’s moved to bite at Phil’s earlobe. “If you get too anxious and wanna call it quits?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, both in agreement and as affirmation of how fucking good it feels when Dan moves back to Phil’s neck, near the hem of his shirt where he’d kissed before in the kitchen.

“Good,” Dan says. “Now, I seem to recall something about working out your energy on me, Lester?”

Phil doesn’t waste anymore time. The whole day before this has just felt like wasted time. He moves his hands along Dan’s spine under his sweater, relishes in the shudder Dan makes at the touch.

It’s just a simple touch really. But Phil’s already wound so goddamn tight and Dan’s feeding off of it, and he’s being sweet like he said he’d be. He’s being appreciative. The muscles of Dan’s back quiver lightly under Phil’s hands as they both move to kiss each other again, a little slow considering the tension in the air. But, just as Phil had asked for, it’s so fucking sweet.

It’s good. He says it, so he knows he can trust it, because on bad days it’s hard to fully trust things. “It’s good.”

“So good,” Dan agrees with him. Phil moves to kiss Dan’s neck. “You’re so stupidly good, Phil. You’re feeling anxious and the way you wanna work through it is making me feel good, Jesus Christ...” Dan grinds his hips down into Phil’s, and Phil keeps kissing over Dan’s pulse point though his vision goes a little white at the brief friction on his already interested cock.

Phil tugs at the bottom of Dan’s jumper so he knows to pull it off. Once Dan’s broad bare chest is free to him, he tilts up his head to kiss and lick and bite at any bit of warm skin he can.

These are safe areas, even if Dan’s only posted one selfie in months, safe areas that he can feel free to mark up all he likes. So he does; he takes his time while Dan pants distracted above him. At some point he sucks on a brown nipple, at another he’s tracing his fingers along the soft flesh of Dan’s stomach, at another he’s laying his palms flat across Dan’s ribs. Dan’s whimpers and moans are frequent; he’s generous with his noises in a way Phil will never not adore.

His fingers slip into the elastic hem of Dan’s pants. “Off,” he grunts, tugging them lower.

Dan shimmies out of them with minimal movement. Phil wraps a hand around Dan’s cock and is rewarded with a choked groan. Dan is naked now, and Phil’s still fully clothed and his own cock is straining against the zipper of his jeans, but it’s the least of his concerns as he says, “C’mere,” and Dan complies.

They shuffle until Phil’s lying flat on his back on the sofa, Dan with his hands gripping the armrest tight and his knees on either side of Phil’s neck. Phil’s fingers move against Dan’s ass while his neck stretches to get Dan’s cock in his mouth. And just as before when Dan’s body weight on his had soothed momentarily the fretful hum of his mind, here Dan’s thighs block out everything in the world that doesn’t matter. There’s only Phil licking at the precome pooling at Dan’s slit, and the sounds Dan makes above him. Everything else gets shoved aside.

At some point he reaches a hand out towards the coffee table, and Dan is slow on the uptake because of all the attention Phil’s giving him by sucking him off, but he notices eventually and bends to grab the bottle of lube and move it to Phil’s hand.

Phil continues short, shallow sucks on Dan while he mutters a mixture of things above him, plenty of “So good,” and “God… _fuck_!” and “Thank you, Phil, yes,” because Dan wasn’t lying when he said he’d be sweet. Then he takes a slickened finger to tap lightly at Dan’s rim and waits for the sharp inhaled reaction that’ll get him. He’s not disappointed. He moves his other hand to press knowingly at Dan’s perineum while opening him up.

He’s slow about it. Everything in his body is telling him to speed up, the nervous energy in his veins and the neediness in the pit of his stomach and the want that thrums at Dan’s whimpers above him, and he’s still feeling just petulant enough to go against that urge and take this step slowly.

He’s letting himself enjoy it, the feel of Dan slowly stretching around him, the feel of Dan’s thigh muscles straining with the effort of wanting _more_.

Everything… he’s letting himself enjoy everything, even while his body and brain are trying to taunt him that he’s not allowed to enjoy anything. He doesn’t give a fuck about his body and brain right now. There’s just this, and it’s slowed like dripping molasses, it’s good and sweaty and the right kind of messiness— he fucking loves it.

And then it’s not enough. In a day filled with too fucking much, he’s finally hit a wall of not enough. He wants to be inside Dan and he’s done putting it off.

“Tug my jeans down,” he says, his throat raspy from the few times Dan had bucked without meaning to.

Dan does, taking care of the button and the zip so quickly Phil doesn’t really even process it. Dan shifts above him, gives a few tugs to Phil’s dick that had been so confined and so neglected, and Phil lifts his hips into the movement because to do anything else is unthinkable.

“Still good?” Dan asks. His cheeks are flushed, his chest is flushed around the many light bite marks Phil had left behind, and his pupils are so blown that Phil is amazed he can even have this conversation. But he loves him for it. He loves him so, so fucking much. For everything. For everything he does.

“Still good,” he nods. “Now sink down onto me before I lose my mind.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Dan grins. Then the grin is pulled into an open-mouthed look of awe and ascension, as Dan’s knees bend and he lowers himself and Phil breaches. Dan’s hands are on his chest; his fingers are moving against where Phil’s nipples are stiff beneath his shirt.

Phil tugs at the neck to yank it off because he needs to feel more of that, more of Dan’s exposed skin on his own.

When Dan has sunk as low as he’ll go, Phil’s hips shutter in a halting buck. Dan moans and leans forward and lays against Phil’s chest to sink just a little deeper, and so Phil can kiss him. They move against each other and they’re pressed so tight together that Phil’s unease has no room at all, nowhere to try to budge between them. It just has to go sulk on the other side of the lounge; Phil will tend to it later. For now, he’s tending something infinitely more precious.

A few times Dan moves to sit up, presumably to ride Phil proper, but Phil digs into Dan’s shoulder blades with his fingernails and keeps him in place. The shallow thrusts still manage to hit Dan at the necessary angle if the sounds he makes are anything to go by. And Phil needs this closeness right now.

Dan doesn’t argue; he must understand, Phil thinks.

He can feel Dan’s cock throbbing where it’s pressed between their stomachs. Then there’s a wetness and a shuttering above him as Dan comes, and an eager hungry kiss afterward that still astounds Phil with its energy. Dan urges him on, begging Phil to come, begging Phil to come inside him, the words lost in the kiss but still more than recognisable by Phil who would never deny Dan what he asked with that tone.

He comes, and he loses control of his body in a way that ought to be terrifying on a bad day— ought to mean he’s lost the earthy tether than kept his bones attached, ought to mean he’s even less himself than he’d been all day— but it isn’t.

It’s just want he needed, it’s surmounting that building feeling that had been growing and growing, and when he leapt he found that instead of falling to his death, he could fly. It’s so good, it seems to take him ages to come back down to earth.

Dan is still kissing along his jaw and his neck, and still muttering tender, sweet things like Phil had asked of him. Phil shifts and pulls out of Dan and their groans at the action match.

“Play with my hair, please?” Phil asks, his breath ragged and uneven, “and just... stay here. Don’t get cleaned up just yet.”

Dan stays. He threads his fingers through Phil’s quiff. He drops featherlight kisses on Phil’s brow bone. “I woulda been sweet without you asking, y’know,” he says eventually, his voice dripping with honey to prove his point.

“Couldn’t risk it,” Phil laughs. “After you abandoned me for the balcony earlier I had to make sure you were gonna stick around and let me use you like a weighted blanket.”

Dan frowns, “I didn’t abandon you! I was—”

“—I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that you really did,” Phil kisses him. “I was just throwing myself a pity party earlier. I wanted to be cared for and you were outside sitting in the sun.”

“Ohhhh, Phil!” There’s a frown and a glint in his eye, and the two don’t really add up but Phil’s familiar enough with the combination.

“Shush,” he pokes Dan’s ribs. “You we’re doing what usually works. Not your fault that today I wanted something as grossly human as my boyfriend nearby and lavishing me with attention.”

“For all the jokes that you’re Voldemort or a robot or a vampire, you’re so stupidly grossly human, babe... I’ll lavish whatever kinky thing you like, including sweetness.”

“Oh, sweetness is kinky now?”

“The kinkiest! And I’ll be so fucking sweet, as long as you don’t shatter my edgy nihilistic image, okay?”

“You’ve shattered it yourself a million times!” Phil pulls him even closer. They might just fuse together, with the come and the sweat between them serving as a mortar. “What nihilist saves a whole pavement-full of snails from getting stepped on? What edgy memelord coos over their sims exchanging promise rings? Face it, Danny... you’re an old softie.”

“And you’re just old.” Dan kisses him again. A kiss that is so honeyed it cancels out the sting of his tease and he keeps his promise. A kiss that stretches, slows then picks up then slows again.

Phil wants another shower and is still rather hungry. The anxiety that was dulled by his release is waiting in his shoulders and his stomach to remind Phil that it’s very much still present. But he feels ridiculously better than before; ridiculously good for a bad day.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading— come say hi on [tumblr](http://yikesola.tumblr.com/post/184136237869/building-building-rating-e-word-count-45k) !


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